


The Forest Ain't The Only Thing Big And Thick

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 08:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10356666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Prompt: Ian is a relatively isolated park ranger living basically out in the mountains; Mickey goes on a camping trip with some buddies, gets high, lost and they leave without him. They're not great friends.-It was a stupid fuckin' idea in the first place. He knew it was gonna be a fuckin' stupid idea, but the pull of easy money and gettin' off his tits (not to mention away from home for a while) had been too alluring. Chris, one of his old juvie connections who was in with a crowd of Northsiders with more money than sense, had invited him along; his crowd needed a steady flow of drugs, and if Mickey got them pissed enough, they'd be practically throwing money at him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seazu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/gifts).



It was a stupid fuckin' idea in the first place. He knew it was gonna be a fuckin' stupid idea, but the pull of easy money and gettin' off his tits (not to mention away from home for a while) had been too alluring. Chris, one of his old juvie connections who was in with a crowd of Northsiders with more money than sense, had invited him along; his crowd needed a steady flow of drugs, and if Mickey got them pissed enough, they'd be practically throwing money at him.

So he had gone, even though he _hated_ camping. All the bugs and shit. The weird noises during the night, the annoying rustle of the tent walls, the way the material of them was always _wet_ with breath condensation and the early morning dew, and it clung to his skin in the most disgusting way if he accidentally brushed against it. He drank beers he hadn't paid for, and smoked weed someone else had bought from him, and got buzzed enough that squeezing in a plastic pyramid with three strangers didn't seem all that bad. He'd made the packet he was promised, which was a small comfort when he woke the next morning with the worst case of dry mouth and the beginning of a hangover headache.

Mickey stumbled out of the tent, pulling on his other shoe. Most of the surprisingly chipper Northsiders were already bundled around the smoky excuse for a campfire, drinking mineral water and revelling in how fucked they'd been the night before. They all sounded far too comfortable and it was way too fuckin' early for Mickey to be dealing with this shit. He mumbled some excuse about going for a piss and set off through the trees, lighting himself a smoke as he went. He walked until his cigarette had burned down to the butt, took a long, _long_ piss against a tree, and turned to head back.

Except he wasn't certain which way was back.

*

Which is how Mickey ended up in his current predicament; lost in an unfamiliar forest, with a phone that lacks signal and a wad of cash in his pocket that is currently useless to him. He swears beneath his breath and tries calling out a few times, but with no luck.

“Hey! Yo! Chris? Where are you fuckheads?”

Something rustles nearby, and he'd fuckin' deny it to his grave and back, but his heart leaps all the way into his throat. He swallows as a deer glances through the trees. Upon spotting him, it panics and swiftly flees. Mickey exhales heavily in relief.

Deer is the least of his problem. He's lost and fuckin' unarmed. Definitely dehydrated after a night of drinking, his throat still cottony from all the smoking, and his body aching and tired. He doesn't know if there's shit like bears or fuckin' mountain lions in this area, but if there is, he's fucked.

After what feels like an hour of stumbling over broken branches, rocky, uneven ground, and a carpet covering of fallen leaves, Mickey finally comes to the clearing they'd set up camp in. It's undeniably the same place, because there are still dwindling embers left in the campfire. Of course, there's a few key differences. Notably, the lack of both tents and people.

“Motherfuckers,” Mickey growls to himself. He checks his phone again. Still no signal. He has a poke through the abandoned bottles and finds one with a few mouthfuls of water left in it, which he eagerly downs. It doesn't so much quench his thirst as rev it up into a higher gear. Fuck. “Fuck.”

Mickey pushes a hand through his hair, giving a sharp little tug. The pain does little to calm him. He has no fuckin' clue where he is, and no clear direction to move in. He can't even remember which direction they'd walked from their parked cars, if he'd even be able to catch the wankers that abandoned him before they drove off.

Still, staying here ain't gonna do him any good. Mickey's jaw sets in determination, and he picks a direction. Gotta come to something eventually, right? Probably. Decision made, he stomps off through the trees.

*

It doesn't take long for his determined stomping to disintegrate into a slow, tired drag. He's hot from the sun, probably gonna burn, and a swarm of bugs have decided his fair skin makes for a delicious treat. He's itchy, sweaty and miserable, and no further forward at all. The threat of his hangover headache has exploded through his skull in steady, throbbing pain. His body is aching and he feels quite nauseous.

Anger might be the only thing driving him forward. He's so fuckin' mad; at Chris for dragging him along in the first place, at his Northside crew for fuckin' leavin' without him, at himself for even agreeing to this fuckin' stupid idea. He's even a little pissed off at the forest, for bein' so fuckin' big and thick and havin' no signs or shit. Also the fact he must be in the fuckin' twilight zone, 'cause he still ain't got signal on his fuckin' phone. Piece of shit.

Hunger starts to kick in around midday, and that hits Mickey harder than the thirst or the fatigue. His stomach grumbles and he presses a hand into it to try and stop the dull ache. He tries to remember how long you can go without food. Three days? Or is that water? Shit, maybe he should be lookin' for a stream or somethin'.

Yeah. Okay. That's his next move, he thinks. He needs to rest a bit now. He's burning through more energy than he's got, considering he'd be lucky to have got five hours sleep at best last night, and his body is lacking fuel and hydration. Mickey finds a wide tree that has a long stretch of shadow for shelter, and slides down against the trunk. Five minutes. Let his tingling feet rest. Five minutes, and then he'll start looking for running water.

 _Five minutes, top_ , he thinks, closing his eyes and leaning back against the tree. It only takes him three minutes to nod off.

*

Mickey stirs to something wet on his face. He screws his eyes up and grumbles his protest, before realising the feeling is a tongue swiping long, slick lines up his cheek. He jerks awake wildly, arms coming up to protect himself, momentarily convinced a bear has come to feast on his unconscious form.

What he actually comes face to face with is a scruffy brown dog. The dog tries to lick him again, but Mickey bats him away. Rather than seeming offended by the brush off, the dog spins in an excited circle before plopping down to sit before him. The dog's tail wags furiously. His pink tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he regards Mickey with soft brown eyes. Mickey stares back, unsure how to respond to this sudden appearance, but then-

“Wait. Do you have an owner?”

The dog tips his head to the side and one of his ears perks up. He's wearing a red collar, which would suggest he's not just a stray scavenging in the forest. Mickey's about to reach for the collar to check for tags when the dog sits straighter and turns his head sharply. Mickey has missed whatever caught his attention, but he's on guard now, straining his ears.

“Where are you? Cola Cubes, c'mere boy!” The voice carries through the trees, firm and steady, and a touch exasperated. The dog reacts immediately, with an excited little yip as he bounces up and bounds off towards the voice.

“Wait-” Mickey reaches out after the dog, but he is ignored. Groaning, he drags his stiff body up. Not sure how long he was out for, but he's itching with insect bites and his ass is starting to go numb.

“There you are.” He hears the voice again, and follows it, stumbling his way through leaves and branches until he finds the owner of both voice and dog. “What did I tell you about runnin' off?”

The man is down on one knee, giving the dog a good rub behind his ears as his tail wags furiously and he makes a few wild, enthusiastic attempts to lick the man's face. He's dressed in some ugly ass shorts, an equally ugly wide brimmed hat, boots, and a shirt that's tucked in; a uniform. Mickey feels a flicker of hope.

“Hey,” he says, stepping forward. The man's head shoots up sharply, expression guarded, but it softens once he takes in Mickey's appearance.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Do I fuckin' look okay?”

“Are you lost?”

“Nah, I'm just out for a relaxing fuckin' stroll in the asshole of nowhere.”

“Sir, please, if you could calm down,” the man says, but there's definitely a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “My name is Ian. I'm one of the park rangers. I can help you, okay?”

“Right. Yeah.” Mickey rubs a thumb along his lower lip, a little sheepish from his outburst.

“What's your name?”

“Mickey.”

“Okay, Mickey. You been out here long?”

“Uh. I'm not sure. I was on a camping trip with some... Friends. They fuckin' left this morning without me. I've just been tryna find a path, or somewhere I can get signal... Something.”

“They don't sound like very good friends,” Ian says gently. Mickey snorts.

“You don't fuckin' say.”

“How about we go back to my station? You can get cleaned up and have something to drink, and we'll see about getting you a phone.”

“Okay.” Then, with only a bit of a struggle: “Thanks.”

“It's no problem. Cola Cubes.” Ian whistles, and his dog, who had started to wander again, comes running back to him.

“No offence, man, but what the fuck kinda name is Cola Cubes?”

Ian just grins, as if it's not the first time he's heard the question.

“He's a rescue dog. That's the name he came with. Already responded to it, so I didn't see the point of changing it. Right, boy?” Cola Cubes pads forward to lick at Ian's fingertips.

“Rescue dog, eh? He a mutt then?”

“Yeah. They think he's got Irish terrier in him, but we're not sure what else.”

“He don't really seem that scary.”

“Why in the world would he need to be scary?” Ian asks, seeming amused.

“Just, y'know. To be out here with you. What if he gotta fight a bear or some shit? He's pretty scrawny.”

“Firstly, we don't see many bears, and secondly, I would not be sending my dog in to fight them, regardless of his breed.”

“Right.”

Ian is smiling at him in that way that looks a touch amused again. Mickey can see him a little better up close; a few glimpses of red hair poking out from beneath his hat, his arms and across his nose sprinkled with freckles, blue-green eyes that crinkle when he smiles, and a jawline Mickey is sure is sharp enough to slice bread. He absently tongues at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the sight of him in his ugly uniform that he still somehow _works_.

He's aware of the sweaty, dirt streaked, ruffled mess that he is, and thinks that it's just one more massive middle finger from karma that he's found in this state by a super hot park ranger. Coulda been a middle aged woman with a moustache and those kind of face moles that have hairs sprouting from them, but nah. It's this fuckin' picture and his charming scruff of a dog.

Fuckin' typical.

*

It doesn't take long to reach the little cabin that is Ian's station, a fact Mickey's tired legs are grateful for. He drops down into one of the chairs at the wooden table, and when Ian sets a cool bottle of water in front of him, he downs half of it in one go.

“Woah there. Slow down. You don't wanna make yourself sick,” Ian says.

He only laughs when Mickey flips him off. That softens into smile when he hears the grumble of Mickey's stomach.

“You hungry?”

Mickey shrugs, not wanting to admit to any more vulnerability. He is. He's hungry, and he's exhausted, and he's in such a foul mood. He just wants to go home, have a long shower, and sleep for at least sixteen hours.

“I only got some sandwiches. That okay?”

Mickey shrugs again. If Ian is annoyed by his silence, it doesn't show, for he only smiles in response. He comes back with a lunch box and takes out some sandwiches, sitting them in front of Mickey.

“Shit man, is this your lunch? I can't take this.”

“You definitely seem like you could use it a lot more than me.”

“I-”

“Just take 'em, okay? I'm fine.”

Well, he don't gotta be told twice. After the first bite, Mickey feels ravenous. He makes short work of the sandwiches. Cola Cubes sits by his feet, attentively watching for Mickey to drop something. He's shit out of luck. Mickey barely takes the time to chew as he inhales the sandwiches, and he certainly don't drop any. It hasn't even been a day, but he feels like he's been out in that forest for a fuckin' week.

“Someone's hungry.” Ian grins across the table at him, sipping from his own bottle of water.

“I ain't eaten.” Mickey's shoulders square defensively, but Ian only continues to smile, completely unaffected by his aggressive body language.

“Yeah. I'm just sayin'.” He takes off his hat, and Mickey gets a better look at the soft copper tones making up his hair. Ian twirls the hat around on one of his fingers. “We've got a phone you can use, or my shift is up in another hour or so. I could give you a lift back into town.”

“Uh. That'd be pretty great, actually. Sure I ain't puttin' you out?”

“Not at all.” Ian leans on his forearms, angling his body across the table. “I'd be happy to give you a ride.”

He smirks, quirking an eyebrow, and Mickey feels a flash of heat run through his entire body that has nothing to do with the dusting of pink the sun has left on his skin. He swallows thickly as Ian watches him, clearly looking for an indication of whether he's going to be rebuffed or not. Mickey tongues at the corner of his mouth again, eyebrows raising as he returns that smirk.

“You say you got an hour or so left of your shift?”

“Yeah, before someone comes to change over. But, y'know. It's mostly just sittin' around. Waiting for any radio messages to come through. Gets kinda boring.”

“Well, I'm sure we could find a more interestin' way to pass the time.” Mickey brushes his leg purposefully against Ian's beneath the table, and Ian's grin blossoms big and bright across his face.

They both move at the same time, meeting in the middle of the table and kissing heatedly. Ian's hands are holding tight at the front of Mickey's shirt, and Mickey's hands move for Ian's hair, quickly destroying the neat way it had been combed back. Ian circles the table and hitches him up, hands beneath Mickey's thighs, and usually he'd hate being hauled around like this, but he's mostly just impressed Ian's manages it. He doesn't break the kiss as he carries Mickey across the room and dumps him unceremoniously onto the little couch at the far side. He flicks a hand at Cola Cubes, who takes that as his cue to disappear to his bed in the far corner, tucked beneath the desk.

Mickey shrugs off his vest and peels his shirt over his head as Ian is working the top few of his buttons open. He seems to be of little patience, for he yanks his shirt over his head once there's enough open buttons that it won't get stuck, and then makes short work of his shorts. Mickey's kicked off his shoes, but it is Ian that grabs the waistband of both his trousers and boxers and pulls them down together. Mickey's tongue slips out to wet his lips, and he looks up at Ian with dark eyes, now spread bare beneath him. Ian takes a second to appreciate him before he's moving to dig through the backpack by the door. He comes back with lube and a condom.

“You keep that shit on you?” Mickey's eyebrows raise questioningly.

“Always prepared.”

“You pick up a lot of stragglers?”

“Nah, but that backpack goes everywhere with me. Y'never know, right?”

Any sarcastic retort Mickey was starting to summon is lost as Ian promptly slides his first finger into him. Mickey hisses and arches his back a bit. It's been a while, and the sudden intrusion startles him. Ian hushes him and presses a soft kiss to his hip.

“Sorry,” he says, but his grin is so self satisfied, it's difficult for Mickey to take as sincere.

Ian works slowly; pressing the finger deep into Mickey, wriggling it around, ensuring to tortuously graze against his prostate several times before he moves back to enter a second finger. He does the same thing, building up his speed when he's on two, so he can start finger fucking Mickey with them. By the time he's pulling back to work a third in, Mickey is a panting, wriggling mess.

“I'm ready. Just get the fuck on me already.”

“Patience,” Ian coos, twisting his fingers right up against Mickey's prostate. He swears and tries to arch away. Ian puts a firm hand on his tummy and holds him in place as he keeps working his fingers against his prostate. He's watching Mickey with hot focus, completely aware that he's turning him into a panting, writhing mess. Mickey feels open and vulnerable; kind of degraded, and definitely like he's at the lower end of a power imbalance. Usually, that would 'cause panic to rise in his throat. As it is, his cock is leaking and his whole body is burning up with heat. He's so fuckin' turned on, Ian could get away with short of anything right now.

As if to test how much of a wreck he is, Ian leans forward and drags his tongue in a long, hot swipe up along Mickey's cock.

“Oh, fuck- Alright, you needa get the fuck on me right fuckin' now or this is gonna end a whole lot sooner than you want,” Mickey babbles.

“Who says I don't want it to end sooner?” Ian smirks, an expression that looks fuckin' _sinful_ , and raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I want to make you come all over yourself, and then I'll fuck you, when you're nice and sensitive. It'll feel good, like, _really_ fuckin' good, but too much. Maybe you'll even cry. Wouldn't be the first time my cock has brought someone to tears of elation.”

Jesus fuckin' Christ. Mickey is two seconds away from havin' some kind of sex induced aneurysm.

“Oh my God, Ian, you talk far too fuckin'- Ahh.” Mickey's protests are cut off as Ian jabs against his prostate again, and his head falls back. There's a light sheen of sweat covering his skin and he feels like he's on the edge, like he's already come, like he's fuckin' dying to come; all at once. It's awful. It's amazing.

He needs a cock in him, like, stat.

Thankfully, Ian seems to have finally bored of his teasing. He slips his fingers out, cleans them off against Mickey's lower tummy (he's too fuckin' gone to protest), and opens the condom. Mickey watches through heavily lidded eyes as Ian slides it on and slicks himself up, stroking his own cock teasingly slow. This is the first decent look Mickey's got at it, and he can understand why Ian was so thorough in his prep. Turns out the forest ain't the only thing big and thick. He swallows the fresh rush of saliva that fills his mouth, tonguing at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drag down over Ian's form, pupils blown.

“Alright.” Ian scoops his legs up, landing Mickey on his back again, and lines his cock up with Mickey's ass. “Here we go.”

“Wait-” Mickey's sentence is lost to their mutual moans as Ian starts to press into him, and he knows he's got no protest left in him. He hates being on his back. Hates having whoever is fuckin' him looking at him, able to see his face when he's most open and vulnerable like this. Ian stops once he's pressed all the way in, glancing up at Mickey with the smallest hint of what might be concern.

“You alright?”

“I-” Fuck it. He can't bear the thought of losing Ian's cock now that it's fuckin' finally inside him, even if it is just to roll onto his stomach. “I'd be better if you started fuckin' moving. What, you forget how this works?”

Ian laughs, stroking his hands over Mickey's thighs. He gives a few small, gentle rolls of his hips first; letting Mickey's adjust and get used to the feel of him. Once he pulls back, however, he slams in again with a sudden force that surprises a long, low moan out of Mickey. Ian looks delighted, and steadily builds up to a punishing pace.

Mickey's not going to last. He knows he isn't. Ian's already spent too long teasing him, longer prepping him than any of his usual quick fucks do. So when Ian's hand goes for his cock, Mickey is tempted to bat him away. Except, the friction is fuckin' great, and he's powerless to refuse his orgasm when it's so close. A few quick, firm strokes in time with his thrusts, and Mickey is coming so hard he feels it shake through his whole body, shooting lines of it up along Ian's chest. Ian fucks him through it, keeps his hand on Mickey's cock until he's squirming away from the sensation.

“Alright if I finish?”

Mickey nods mutely, unable to form words. He can't feel his toes. Fuck, he can't feel his fuckin' fingers, just a kind of numb tingling sensation. He can feel Ian's fingers, though. Pressing into his thighs as he holds Mickey even tighter, and Mickey didn't think it was possible for him to thrust any quicker, but apparently it is. Ian digs out some hidden reserve of energy and fuckin' _pounds_ Mickey, and he has the perfect angle (of course the fucker does), brushing against Mickey's prostate each time. It's gone from sheer pleasure to a kind of torturous pleasure/pain now, and all Mickey can do is squirm and pant and moan. It doesn't take Ian much longer to follow him over, but it's enough to have the start of tears welling at the corner of Mickey's eyes. If he weren't so tired, he'd be mortified.

Ian doesn't seem to be post-sex paralysed the same way he is. He takes a while to hover over Mickey on shaky arms, catching his breath and dropping the odd kiss to Mickey's shoulder. Then he's on his feet; getting rid of the condom, putting the lube away, summoning some tissues to tidy both himself and Mickey up. When he's done, he brings Mickey a fresh bottle of water and gently eases him into a sitting position.

“You alright?”

Mickey nods. His hand is shaking a touch as he takes the bottle from Ian. He doesn't trust himself with words. Ian beams at him; satisfied and a touch smug.

“That alright?”

“You fuckin' know it was, you smug asshole.” Mickey kicks his shin out of spite, but Ian's smile doesn't falter. He drapes a blanket around Mickey's shoulders.

“I actually gotta do a few things before I finish my shift, but maybe we can go get something proper to eat when I'm done?”

“Ain't you supposed to buy me dinner before we fuck?”

“Gave you my lunch, didn't I?”

Mickey can't really argue with that. He hesitates, biting his lip. Is this a date? He doesn't really _do_ dates, but then again, he's never really done earth shattering sex like that before, either. Wouldn't mind having another go at it.

“Fine, yeah, alright.”

Ian's beam is like the fuckin' sun shining out of his face. He steals a kiss before floating off to get dressed. Cola Cubes slinks out of his hiding place and comes across to sit beside Mickey. He looks at Ian and his tail wags lazily.

“Same, buddy,” Mickey murmurs, and scratches him behind the ear.

 


End file.
